


Has to be Better

by GreenRogue



Series: In All their Angsty Hurt [11]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Brief Dean Winchester - Freeform, Child Abandonment, Emotionally Hurt Sam Winchester, Episode: s11e08 Just My Imagination, Gen, John Winchester A+ parenting, Running Away, Sad Sam Winchester, Sam Winchester Needs a Hug, This one hurt my own heart, Young Sam Winchester, pre-era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-05-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:15:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24291916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenRogue/pseuds/GreenRogue
Summary: It had been 6 days since his brother had left to join their dad, 4 since his last call—not that Sam was counting. Not that he had a small homemade calendar shoved in his backpack with the days crossed off since he found the quickly scrawled note on the motel table,Dad called, needs back up. Back soon, don’t spend all the money on pizza-DeanA year after Sam tells Sully to leave, a year for things to change-- or not--
Series: In All their Angsty Hurt [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1480616
Comments: 10
Kudos: 61





	Has to be Better

**Author's Note:**

> ya'll... I made my own heart hurt with this one and it's taken days to get over it. Obviously this is based on Supernatural but I pulled my own personal experiences in here a little to give it that extra kick in the gut. It's not fun to be left behind...
> 
> This is just a quick thought for the first time Sam ran away.
> 
> As always I do not own Supernatural or the characters, I just like to hurt them.

* * *

The water prickled his skin like pins as needles as it fell from the cold sunless sky. Like tiny razor blades cutting into his skin as he trudged his way from the school of the week to the motel room made of nightmares. The worn soles of his tennis shoes slapped against the wet concrete, his eyes stared listlessly at the wet pavement, his mind blessedly blank. Sam had made this trek for the past 9 days, 9 miserable days of shuffling from an empty motel room full of ratty furniture and cold food to a school he couldn’t even remember the name of.

It had been 6 days since his brother had left to join their dad, 4 since his last call—not that Sam was counting. Not that he had a small homemade calendar shoved in his backpack with the days crossed off since he found the quickly scrawled note on the motel table,

_Dad called, needs back up. Back soon, don’t spend all the money on pizza_

_-Dean_

Sam had sniffed once before dropping the note in the trash. His eyes burned but no tears fell, no point. Why cry over something that had already happened? Why bother working yourself up when there was no one around to listen or console? The twenty sat on the TV stand, a crumbled bill left behind in a rush, too many creases marring its once crisp skin. The edges were a little dirty from too many exchanged hands and Sam had contemplated it in the dark one night. Wondered how many state lines it had crossed, how many hands it was exchanged between. He once imagined what it would be like if inanimate objects had self-awareness. If dollar bills felt abandoned when left behind by their owners. He’d snorted at his own train of thought and rolled over that night, ignoring the slowly growing ice in his chest.

He spent that twenty ages ago, a few boxes of mac and cheese and crackers—one candy bar because every 10 year old can be a little selfish sometimes. Now as he jammed the slightly rusted key in the door, Sam contemplated if he could eat 3 of his cracker stash or if he should stick to 2. Fuck it he’s having 4. Soggy bag dropped by the door, shoes squelching as their kicked off, Sam pads towards the bathroom to hang up his drenched hoodie and change into pajama pants.

The air of the room still smells of stale cigarettes and body odor even though he’s been occupying it for the past week and a half. He’s left the window open well into the evenings even though it runs a risk of something getting in. Not sure what though, the general paranoia of his father has ingrained a constant humming anxiety under his skin that leaves him twitchy some nights. Those nights are when the darkness outside seems viscous in its blackness. Like an ever-reaching tar has spread across the world muffling the light and goodness until there is nothing left but heavy persecution and sin.

The fluorescent light of the bathroom buzzes to life as Sam flicks the switch, his hazel eyes briefly searching out his reflection before turning away. The yellow tinge of illness was still sticking to his skin, brown hair limp and wet from the rain. He knows his eyes will be empty, void of any lightness that should reside inside. He’s not ready to face the stranger in the mirror yet.

_’Ever think— you could eat ten waffles in one sitting?’_

“Not now okay?” Sam’s small hoarse voice cracks in the silence around him. It sounds off, wrong. It’s oppressive against his ears as he drops his soggy clothes and retreats to his one room home. He curls up in his boxers on the unmade bed, sheets cold and scratchy. Sam’s staring listlessly around the room, the faint glow of neon lights outside casting odd shadows across the tacky furniture. He thinks about the homework in his bag for a moment. About the math tables and English paper that are due, just as quickly though he dismisses them. What would be the point on completing homework for a school he may, or may not be at come Monday? It was a weekend away, a possible two days for his family to come collect him—if they remembered him.

He let his eyes roam across the dark TV and wobbly kitchen table. Over the second bad, still crisply made, to stare at the corded phone next to his head. Maybe today he’d get the call—some kind of call--. His mind ticked through random facts as he aimlessly stared into the vague distance. His body still shivering slightly from his wet trek home, he was too tired to take a warm shower. It wasn’t until 1am hit that he let his eyes fall closed, the hovering tears in his lashes falling silently onto the pillow.

* * *

The next day brought more of the mundane routine he’d come to adapt to. Awake by 6am, 2 mile jog and shower completed before 8am. Just water from the sink for breakfast (though he never did get those crackers last night), and then he studied the copies of lore his dad left him from Bobby’s books. It’d been weeks since he’d last seen Uncle Bobby, or Pastor Jim. He supposed they were do another visit soon if his dad and brother—no— **when** his dad and brother returned. Flipping through the phonetically, teachable Latin Sam let his legs swing idly while he sat at the dingy table. He could hear people talking outside, kids were laughing as they ran through the parking lot. Sam feels a shiver of longing run down his spine and he glances a look towards the closed curtains.

‘ _Go on, bud. Whatever happens, it’s cool beans.’_

Sam shakes his head and forces his eyes back towards the photo copy paper.

“Doesn’t matter anyway.” The silence around him seems to reverberate with the vocal disturbance and Sam winces at the sound of his own voice. ‘ _Great, now I’m talking to the imaginary friend that isn’t even around anymore—‘._ Sam sighed and leaned back in his chair, studying forgotten for the moment. He chews on his lower lip in contemplation and anxiety. He missed his friend, even if he was just a figment of his imagination—but he was too old for one anyway, right?

“Too old for a friend—too young to hunt—” Sam huffed a laugh and stood up from the table angrily and started to pace. It was still the same routine, the indignant anger would flare—burn hot. Then smolder as the sun set, leaving him colder than before and still just as alone. He could practically feel the disjointed thoughts beginning to encroach on his mind, the numbing ache of the darkness slowly surrounding him, suffocating him—

**_~ring ring~_ **

Saved—literally—by the bell. Sam all but launched himself towards the motel phone, hands scrambling to answer before he was disconnected again, alone again.

“Dean?” For a moment all Sam could hear was the sounds of raucous laughter in the background, interspersed with cracking noise of balls on a pool table.

“Hey Sammy! Dude you should have been here, Dad ganked a witch! It was so cool.” Warmth flooded his chest at the sound of his brother’s voice, the little niggling doubt in the back of his brain finally faded to nothing as his brother carried on about the hunt—they were alive--. “--I mean the way he was able to turn her hex bag back on her, seriously—you missed out. Anyway we should be done at Bobby’s by tomorrow and head back to pick you up—”

“Wait, your at Bobby’s?” Sam’s chest clutched uncomfortably, and he could practically see Dean try to backpedal.

“Well I mean, Dad found a bunch of books and he wanted to get them to Bobby right away. And ya know it was a long drive so he—uh we, well—point is we’ll be back by Monday okay? Oh hey I gotta go, don’t forget to clean up the room before we get there.” Sam opened his mouth to respond, to ask a question, to try and do something to remain connected; but the phone went dead before he could even breathe.

He stared at the water stained lamp shade for a few minutes, phone dangling limply from his fingers as the busy signal echoed in the quiet room. His eyes slowly drifted to the beige phone as he slowly replaced it back on the receiver. He stood for another few minutes, vaguely feeling his eyes burning while the pain in his chest grew in magnitude in the silence. He brain wouldn’t focus, couldn’t focus, on the accidentally spilled revelation.

They had finished the hunt- they’d finished it successfully and rather than drive the few hours back to him they went all the way to Souix Falls—a 2 day drive—

Before he knew it, throat-clenching sobs wretched themselves from his still form and he sunk to the floor between the beds. He bent his head forward, palms scratching against the rough carpet as his emotions spiraled and grew; violently ripping themselves from his throat. His eyes clenched hard. Hot tears splashed against his hands and the carpet below him. Between the harsh, nearly silent sobs, Sam whimpered and rocked on his knees pleading with an absent father.

“Why—why can’t you remember me. W-why am I not good enough—Daddy pl-please—“. Sam ached for the numb coldness he’d been living with the past few days, anything would have been better than this piercing ache in his chest.

_‘Sam, I want you to listen to me. You can be whatever you wanna be. You’re not Dean, you’re not your Dad. You’re Sam, and Sam is awesome.’_

It was well past dark before the sobs reduced themselves to whimpering. Sam had fallen back against the side of his bed, knees drawn close with his head bowed. His head ached and his stomach clenched in hunger. Slowly uncurling himself from his protected bubble, he stood on wobbly legs and made his way towards the bathroom to wash his face.

_‘It’s your choice Sam. It’s your life, I mean, it’s all up to you.’_

It was like auto-pilot. No real thought or motivation as he gathered his things. The small duffel was packed quickly, room tidied up (some habits were hard to break), lore and research hidden deep under his clothes. He had no money to speak of, no way of taking care of himself—but anything had to be better than this.

He took a last glance around the room, eyes scanning and skipping over the still made bed next to the door and the wretched beige phone sitting silently. No remaining signs that he’d been here, no leftover presence that screamed “ _Sam”_ that he could find. Shrugging his backpack higher on his shoulder and grabbing his duffel, Sam quickly opened the motel door and stepped through letting it shut quietly. He stared for a moment at the brassy numbers on the door, before slowly stepping away and letting his gaze focus on the far horizon.

Anything had to be better than this.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Better or Worse, It's What I've Got](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25138948) by [GreenRogue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenRogue/pseuds/GreenRogue)




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